The sound of fuck is a mysterious thing.
Sometimes it comes when you sing,
A simple chorus to a one night fling;
Sometimes it accompanies a tune of voluptuous flair,
When you’re lost in passion’s forgotten lair.
In a world of desire,
Men and women scribe with sensual gesture;
Their pages lay open where clothing is shed,
They whisper a wordless language of secrets wherever they lay to bed;
Permutations of skin determine the vocabulary of passion,
A syntax of limbs, a grammar of position;
All serve as a predicate to the action of ecstasy;
But words are lost to an ancient, animalistic memory.
Think of all the times flesh smacks on flesh,
When two bodies melt into an intertwined mesh;
Think of the moans and groans;
Think of the sighs and highs;
Think of the lows and throes;
Think of that sweaty, smutty, sexual muck;
Begin to learn language of the sound of fuck.